Selections  from 

Catullus 

1                       tEvmsilatth  bv 

jWarp  Stetoart 

UC-NRLF 


B    3    MAT    Tfl3 


SELECTIONS   FROM   CATULLUS 


SELECTIONS       FROM 

CATULLUS 

Translated     into     English    verse    with     an 
Introduction   on   the  theory  of  Translation 


BY  MARY  STEWART 


BOSTON:   RICHARD  G.  BADGER 

THE    COPP    CLARK    CO.,     LIMITED,     TORONTO 


Copyright,  1915,  by  Mary  Stewart 


All  Rights   Reserved 


Thb  Gorham  Press,  Boston,  U.  S.  A. 


To  MY  Sister 
L.  S.  B. 


Oh,  Sister  of  mine,  so  beloved. 
Oh,  dear  heart  of  my  heart,  can  it  be 
You  are  dead,  you  are  gone. 
And  the  world  still  goes  on 
In    darkness   unending   for   me? 

They  buried  the  gold  of  the  sunshine 
With  the  gold  of  your  beautiful  hair. 
And  the  blue  of  the  skies 
With  the  blue  of  your  eyes. 
Ah,  nothing  is  left  that  was  fair! 

And  you — is  it  well  with  you.  Sister, 

You  who  so  loved  the  breeze  and  the  light. 

And  the  laughter  and  love 

And  the  glad  life  above, 

Down  there  all  alone  in  the  nightf 

Ah,  God,  is  there  never  an  answer? 
Cant  she  hear,  though  in  anguish  I  cry? 
Little  soul,  fair  and  white. 
Lost  and  lone  in  the  night — 
Dear  God,  can  such  loveliness  die? 

Then  glad  like  a  flower  in  the  spring  time. 

With  the  gold  of  the  sun  in  her  hair. 

And  the  blue  of  the  skies 

In  her  wonderful  eyes. 

Is  she  waiting  for  me  somewhere? 


CONTENTS 

Page 

An  Experiment  in   Translation 9 

Selections   from    Catullus 

I    29 

//    30 

///    31 

V 32- 

VII    33 

VIII   34 

IX    35 

XIII 36 

XIV   37 

XXVI    38 

XXVII 39 

XXX   40 

XXXI    41 

XXXIV 42 

XXXV 44 

XXXVIII  46 

XLIII 47 

XLVI 48 

XLVIII  49 

L   50 

LI  51 


CONTENTS 

Page 

LII   53 

LXV 54 

LXVIII  A  55 

LXX 58 

LXXII 59 

LXXIII 60 

LXXVI  61 

LXX XVII  and  LXXV    63 

LXX XVI    64 

XCII    65 

XCVI  66 

XCIX 67 

CI 68 

CII  69 

CVII    70 

CIX  71 


CATULLUS 


CATULLUS 

An  Experiment  in    Translation 

IN  offering  new  translations  of  the  classics  the 
translator  anticipates  the  critics  Why-did- 
you-do-it?  by  hastening  to  explain  himself. 
Hence  the  prologue.  In  fact,  no  one  can 
play  much  with  translating  w^ithout  pretty  seri- 
ously asking  himself  why  he  does  it,  and  thereupon 
finding  himself  hopelessly  tangled  in  a  mesh  of 
questions  about  the  place  of  translations  and  the  art 
of   translating. 

There  can  no  longer  be  any  question  about  the 
place  of  translations  in  modern  literature.  All  an- 
cient literature  and  all  modern,  in  any  tongue  save 
English,  are  accessible  to  the  great  mass  of  people 
only  in  translation.  We  may  talk  as  we  please 
about  the  beauty  of  the  original  and  the  impossibility 
of  adequate  translation,  but  the  fact  remains  that  for 
most  of  us  it  is  translation  or  nothing.  Nor  is  this 
altogether  regrettable.  Even  if  it  were  possible  for 
all  of  us  to  learn  Latin  and  Greek  well  enough  to 
read  the  great  epics,  it  would  scarcely  be  worth 
while  for  all  of  us  to  do  it.  Though  the  scholar 
has  his  place,  and  a  very  necessary  one,  no  language 

9 


10  CATULLUS 

can  ever  mean  to  us  what  our  own  language  does, 
not  even  a  modern,  living  tongue;  and.  If  this  is 
true  of  a  living  tongue,  what  is  to  be  said  of  a  dead 
one?  Even  the  scholar  who  knows  his  Greek  so 
well  that  he  reads  Homer  Instead  of  translating 
him,  and  has  an  ear  so  atuned  to  the  sonorous 
phrase  that  he  enjoys  Its  music,  must  still  read  the 
stirring  epic  as  an  English  man,  not  as  a  Greek ;  as  a 
modern,  not  as  an  ancient.  And  however  rich  his 
knowledge  of  etymology,  it  cannot  fuse  with  life 
the  dead  word  of  a  dead  people.  Language  is  a 
living,  growing  thing,  quivering,  glowing,  moving, 
connected  by  a  thousand-thousand  invisible  capil- 
laries with  the  life  of  today.  For  the  English  per- 
son the  English  language  has  a  subtlety  of  meaning 
and  a  richness  of  connotation  that  no  other  tongue 
can  possibly  have.  It  Is  bound  up  with  his  exper- 
ience, not  only  racial  but  personal.  The  power  of 
a  word  Is  measured  by  myriad  Influences,  drawn 
from  every  experience  with  which  it  may  be  as- 
sociated in  the  mind  of  the  individual.  And  the 
beauty  of  literature  is  so  dependent  on  this  unex- 
pressed meaning  of  word  and  phrase  we  dare  to  say 
no  original  in  a  dead  tongue  could  give  to  an  English 
ear  the  aesthetic  pleasure  of  a  good  translation. 

A  good  translation — "Aye  there's  the  rub." 
Mathew  Arnold  in  his  scholarly  essay,  "On  Trans- 
lating Homer,"  has  set  up  a  standard  of  translation 


CATULLUS  II 

which,  according  to  Mr.  Calvin  Winter  (In  The 
Bookman  for  March  and  April,  1911),  has  been 
guilty  of  fastening  a  lot  of  bad  translations.  Mr. 
Arnold  says  that  the  first  requisite  of  a  good  transla- 
tion is  faithfulness  to  the  original.  With  this  we 
heartily  agree.  It  is  when  he  defines  his  criterion 
for  faithfulness  that  we  must  differ  from  him. 
There  has  been  current  for  a  long  time  the  idea  that 
a  good  translation  is  one  which  would  afEect  the 
English  reader  as  the  Greek  or  Latin  original  af- 
fected a  Greek  or  a  Roman.  As  Mr.  Arnold  points 
out,  this  is  an  impossible  standard,  because  nobody 
knows  just  how  the  original  affected  the  ancients. 
However,  we  feel  that  the  test  Mr.  Arnold  him- 
self imposes  is  scarcely  less  possible.  To  his  mind 
the  taste  of  the  scholar  is  the  test — the  good  trans- 
lation the  one  that  affects  this  Greek  or  Latin  scholar 
as  the  original  does.  The  man  who  knows  his 
Greek  is  the  judge.  Mr.  Winter  points  out  the 
fallacy  of  this  criterion  as  follows:  "It  is  difficult  to 
imagine  any  method  for  getting  away  more  com- 
pletely from  the  original  spirit  of  the  Iliad  than  to 
so  translate  as  to  have  It  give  to  the  average  modern 
reader  the  same  impression  that  it  makes  upon  the 
typical  middle-aged  professor  of  dead  languages." 
These  standards,  he  farther  adds,  "are  precisely 
those  which  tend  to  develop  a  school  of  glorified 
cribs.  .  .  .  The  translations  that  live,  the  transla- 


12  CATULLUS 

tions  that  we  like  to  think  of  as  a  part  of  English 
literature,  are  of  a  different  sort.  They  are  from 
the  pen  of  writers  who  have  made  their  names 
glorious  for  something  besides  the  echoing  of  other 
men's  thoughts,  and  who  have  insisted,  even  in  their 
translations,  on  remaining  original.  .  .  .  Transla- 
tions have  a  vitality  and  a  vogue  in  direct  ratio  to 
the  writer's  spirit  of  independence."  This  judg- 
ment of  Mr.  Winter  is  substantiated  by  some  of  the 
best  translations  in  English.  They  have  been  made 
by  men  who  were  literary  artists  as  well  as  scholars. 
Let  us  discuss  for  a  moment  what  we  mean  by  a 
good  translation.  Obviously  the  first  aim  of  the 
translator  is  to  make  a  faithful  translation.  On  this 
point  there  is  practically  a  general  agreement.  A 
faithful  translation  is  one  that  is  true  to  the  idea 
and  spirit  of  the  original  rather  than  to  the  word 
and  letter.  The  method  of  the  translator  will  vary 
according  to  the  subject  matter  and  the  purpose  for 
which  the  translation  is  intended.  There  are  two 
kinds  of  literature:  (a)  the  literature  of  informa- 
tion and  (b)  the  literature  of  beauty.  Plainly,  in 
the  translation  of  the  first  class  the  ideal  is  one  of 
accuracy  and  clearness.  This,  of  course,  is  com- 
paratively easy,  presupposing,  on  the  part  of  the 
translator,  merely  a  knowledge  of  the  foreign  lan- 
guage (and,  we  may  add  incidentally,  of  his  own), 
and  a  thorough  understanding  of  the  subject  matter 


CATULLUS  13 

in  hand.  The  translation  of  the  second  class — pure 
literature — involves  an  additional  quality  which,  for 
want  of  a  better  term,  we  may  call  literary  sensi- 
bility. The  translator  must  make  not  merely  a 
transcript  of  the  idea  but  a  species  of  belles  lettres, 
a  sort  of  new  creative  thing  in  itself.  The  function 
of  pure  literature  is  to  please  and  interest  no  less 
by  its  form  than  by  its  content.  Hence  a  good  trans- 
lation of  a  masterpiece  must  be  in  itself  a  kind  of 
masterpiece.  "As  it  takes  a  thief  to  catch  a  thief, 
so  it  takes  a  poet  to  catch  a  poet." 

We  approach  any  translation  from  three  points 
of  view — first,  the  purely  scholarly  view  point  whose 
ideal  is  accuracy  and  thoroughness.  This  seeks  a 
pretty  literal  translation,  one  that  will  keep  the 
facts  as  straight  as  possible,  and  it  is  the  primary 
essential  of  all  good  translation.  Second,  the  schol- 
arly-literary view  point,  which  aims  not  only  at  an 
accurate  transcript  of  ideas  but  at  an  appreciation 
of  them  in  relation  to  their  own  setting.  This 
means  keeping  the  "flavor"  of  the  original,  trans- 
lating one-self,  so  to  speak,  into  the  past  rather 
than  the  original  into  the  present.  This  too,  is  an 
essential  quality  of  a  good  translation.  And  third, 
the  purely  literary  view  point,  which  would  make 
of  the  original  a  "new  original,"  a  bit  of  real  litera- 
ture which,  while  true  to  its  source,  is  equally  true 
to  its  end;  that  is,  faithful  to  the  original  and  sig- 


14  CATULLUS 

nificant  to  the  reader.  This  last  viewpoint  involves 
and  implies  the  other  tw^o.  The  needs  of  scholar- 
ship may  often  go  no  farther  than  accurate  trans- 
lation and  appreciative  interpretation,  but  w^ithout 
the  literary  "touch,"  they  w\\\  fall  short  of  true 
translation.  For  herein  lies  the  life-giving  property 
that  must  animate  the  solid  framework  of  scholarly 
information,  and  color  and  illuminate  the  grace  and 
form  of  scholarly  appreciation.  This  is  the  trans- 
lator's contribution  to  literature.  The  scholar's 
work  merely  goes  to  pile  the  shelves  of  fact,  to 
heap  up  the  raw  material  out  of  which  real  litera- 
ture is  made. 

What  are  the  ear  marks  of  a  good  translation? 
( I )  It  must  be  interesting  to  the  generation  for 
which  it  is  written,  must  speak  straight  from  the 
heart,  direct  and  spontaneous,  in  the  idiomatic  Eng- 
lish of  the  day,  bearing  no  halting  syntactical  hy- 
brids; (2)  it  must  be  true  to  the  original  in  fact 
and  in  spirit,  carrying  the  same  dignity,  nobility, 
grace,  or  whimsicality  that  the  original  bore.  And 
for  this  end  a  literal  translation  is  often  the  last 
thing  wanted,  either  of  word  or  of  form.  For  ex- 
ample— well-bred  Romans  might  have  listened  with 
equanimity  to  certain  words  that  shock  a  well-bred 
American.  To  translate  literally  the  word  that  was 
in  the  original  would  be  to  translate  the  shock 
which  was  not  in  the  original;  and  this  would  be 


CATULLUS  15 

faithless.  Again  certain  figures,  allusions,  and  the 
like,  full  of  significance  to  the  people  for  whom 
they  were  written  may  tall  quite  empty  on  a  modern 
ear.  It  is  for  the  translator,  then,  to  find  for  these 
adequate  substitutes  or  paraphrases  as  far  as  po-i 
sible.  For  example,  Catullus  LI  I  reads  literally — 
"What  reason  is  there,  Catullus,  why  you  should 
delay  dying;  vile  Nonius  is  in  the  curule  chair, 
Vatinius  sw^ears  by  the  consulate,  why  then,  Catul- 
lus, do  you  delay  dying?"  In  translation,  a  mean- 
ingless and  offensive  lot  of  words  truly,  but  in  the 
original,  pointed,  trenchent,  clever.  Catullus  used 
the  specific  names  Nonius  and  Vatinius  because  to 
the  ears  of  his  generation  concrete  examples  of  de- 
bauchery and  bribery  illustrated  in  the  names  of 
prominent  citizens  were  far  more  vij^orous  than  ab- 
stract terms.  But  these  names  mean  nothing  to  us. 
The  abstract  qualities  say  far  more.  So  we  have 
translated  the  lines  as  follows — true  to  the  spirit,  we 
maintain,  and  certainly  clearer  to  the  reader. 

Why    wait   for   deaths    Catullus,   zvhy    not   be 

done  ivith   life? 

Corruption   in    the    Curule   chair,   and   in 

The  Senate  strife. 

Venality  is  honored,  and  bribery  is  rife. 

Why    wait   for   death,    Catullus,   why    not   be 

done   with    life? 


i6  CATULLUS 

On  the  other  hand,  to  have  substituted  modern 
names  for  Nonius  and  Vatinius  would  have  been 
going  too  far,  would  have  destroyed  the  flavor,  and 
produced  a  paraphrase  not  a  translation. 

The  translator's  task  is  indeed  a  difficult  one, 
one  calling  for  versatile  abilities.  He  must  find  the 
phrase  that  will  contain  the  spirit  as  well  as  tran- 
scribe the  fact.  He  must  be  en  rapport  not  only 
with  the  language  itself  but  with  the  milieu  of  that 
language,  must  be  a  part  of  its  vitality,  so  to  speak, 
and  understand  and  know  its  contemporaneous  sig- 
nificance. One  generation  does  not  fully  under- 
stand the  literature  of  another  of  the  same  tongue 
without  more  or  less  copious  annotations,  which  are 
in  themselves  a  kind  of  translation.  We  can't  read 
Chaucer  without  a  glossary,  nor  Shakespere  without 
notes.  How  then  shall  one  nation  comprehend  an- 
other without  annotations,  or  one  age  grasp  an- 
other without  such  illumination.  A  good  translation 
is  a  kind  of  condensed  and  concatenated  annotation. 
After  all,  we  keep  on  translating  whether  we  know 
it  or  not,  all  the  time.  There  isn't  much  new  knowl- 
edge; there's  just  a  lot  of  fresh  thinking  about  old 
subjects.  And  each  generation  keeps  on  translating 
the  thoughts  of  the  last  into  its  own  vernacular. 
Hence  arises  the  need  of  new  translations  of  old 
classics.  Virgil  translated  for  the  seventeenth  cen- 
tury might  not  be  just  Virgil  to  the  twentieth,  and 


CATULLUS  17 

we  see  Homer  with  glasses  colored  by  a  somewhat 
different  experience  from  that  of  Pope.  It  is  not 
strange,  therefore,  if  we  should  want  to  make  our 
own  translations. 

Catullus  has  something  different  for  us  from  what 
he  has  had  for  any  other  people  at  any  other  time, 
and  so  we  want  to  interpret  him  in  our  own  way. 
That  people  keep  on  translating  Catullus  is  rea- 
son enough  why  they  should.  He  has  something 
for  them  or  they  wouldn't  take  the  trouble.  That 
a  writer  does  live  is  reason  enough  for  his  immor- 
tality. It  is  to  be  expected  that  he  have  a  sort  of 
vogue,  a  rise  and  wane  of  popularity.  Ages  are  dif- 
ferent, and  one  age's  vogue  is  another's  aversion. 

Next  to  Horace,  Catullus  seems  to  us  the  most 
modern  of  the  ancients — that  is,  if  there  is  any  most. 
They  are  all  contemporaries  when  we  get  acquainted 
with  them.  It  is  amazing  to  find  out  how 
modern  all  these  writers  are,  which  is  just 
another  way  of  saying  how  ancient  human  nature 
is.  "As  it  was  in  the  beginning,  is  today  official 
sinning,"  chants  Mr.  Kipling,  "and  shall  be  for- 
evermore."  It  is  this  continuity  of  human  nature 
that  gives  us  a  friendly  feeling  for  the  classics.  All 
the  big  feelings  are  the  same,  and  the  little  ones 
aren't  so  surprisingly  different;  rather  they  are  sur- 
prisingly alike.  Common  follies  strike  quicker  sym- 
pathies than  common  virtues;  congenial  foibles  and 


1 8  CATULLUS 

superficial  graces  offer  a  readier  intimacy  than  fun- 
damental principles.  We  can  weep  with  anybody. 
Grief  is  universally  the  same;  but  we  laugh  only 
with  those  who  understand.  It  is  just  here  that 
Catullus  is  so  "modern."  He  saw  the  grace  in 
things,  in  manners,  customs,  fashions,  politics  and 
society.  In  short,  for  all  the  intimacies  of  daily  liv- 
ing he  had  a  quick  eye  and  a  felicitous  phrase.  Not 
only  did  he  feel  the  passion  and  pathos  of  life,  but 
he  was  keenly  sensitive  to  all  the  nuances  of  light 
and  graceful  feeling,  and  it  is  in  delicate  apprecia- 
tion of  the  finer  sentiments  that  Catullus  excels. 
His  incite  is  less  profound  than  that  of  Horace  but 
it  is  more  subtle.  Keenly  alive,  quiveringly  sensi- 
tive to  all  that  touches  a  human  being  in  emotional 
experience,  he  had  pre-eminently  what  Burns  would 
have  called  sensibility.  And  he  is  like  Burns,  too, 
has  more  in  common  with  him  than  with  any  other 
lyric  poet,  unless  it  be  Shelley.  In  life  he  was  cir- 
cumstanced more  like  Shelley,  a  gentleman  in  birth 
and  breeding,  well  educated  and  wealthy,  in  spite  of 
the  "cobwebs"  in  his  purse,  the  result  rather  of 
extravagance  than  poverty.  In  temperament  he  was 
more  like  Burns,  wild  and  turbulent  in  passion, 
fierce  in  love  and  relentless  in  hate.  And  when  he 
took  to  satire  and  invective  he  out-Burnsed  Burns. 
At  times  he  was  so  coarse,  brutal,  and  indecent  it 
is  hard  to  believe  he  could  ever  be  gentle,  graceful, 


CATULLUS  19 

and  noble.  However,  we  must  remember  the  age 
allowed  excesses  of  speech  we  would  not  tolerate.  By 
nature  he  was  intense,  yet  simple  and  ingenuous; 
by  education,  refined,  sensitive,  and  exquisite.  Love 
was  at  once  with  him  a  mighty  passion  and  a  deli- 
cate sentiment.  While  he  touched  the  superficial 
graces — and  disgraces — of  living  in  a  half  playful 
tone,  life  was  to  him  always  a  tremendous  emotion. 
A  mo  et  odi,  he  sang,  and  this  was  the  index  of  his 
temperament.  There  was  nothing  lukewarm  about 
him.  He  loved  his  friends  and  hated  his  enemies — 
joyed  with  the  mad  rush  of  a  mountain  torrent  and 
sorrowed  with  the  weight  of  a  deep  sea  dirge.  Per- 
haps no  one  can  write  lyric  poetry  who  does  not  live 
intensely. 

Few  facts  are  known  of  the  life  of  C.  Valerius 
Catullus.  He  was  born  at  Verona,  or  near  there, 
about  B.  C.  84  and  died  at  Rome  thirty  years  later. 
The  dates  of  his  birth  and  death  are  variously  giveii^ 
but  the  divergence  is  not  wide.  B.  C.  87-84  for  the 
birth;  B.  C.  57-54  for  the  death.  He  was  con- 
temporary with  Cicero  and  Lucretius. 

There  is  reliable  evidence  that  he  was  of  good 
family,  since  his  father  was  the  friend  and  host  of 
Caesar;  that  he  had  wealth,  for  he  owned  a  yacht 
and  two  or  three  country  estates,  a  villa  at  Sirmio 
and  another  on  the  edge  of  the  Sabine  hills.  At  an 
early  age  he  went  to  Rome  where  he  mingled  with 


20  CATULLUS 

the  gay  and  extravagant  society  of  the  period.  Here 
he  found  many  friends,  notably  Cornelius  Nepos 
to  whom  he  presented  his  volume  of  lyrics  in  the 
graceful  little  dedicatory  poem,  Cicero,  FabuUus 
and  Veranius,  and  chiefest  in  his  own  eyes  and 
closest  to  his  heart,  Licinius  Calvus,  a  young  poet 
like  himself,  to  whom  he  adressed  some  of  his  most 
charming  verses.     (XIV,  LIII,  XCVI). 

When  he  was  about  twenty-six  years  of  age,  he 
went  to  Bithynia  on  the  staff  of  C.  Memmius  who 
was  propraetor  of  the  province.  It  was  on  taking 
leave  of  this  province  that,  stirred  by  the  wander- 
lust of  youth  and  spring,  he  wrote  the  exquisite  little 
lyric  numbered  XLVI.  And  the  greeting  to  "fair 
Sirmio"  celebrated  his  return  home  in  lines  no  less 
beautiful.  Sensitive  to  every  shade  of  emotion  as  he 
was,  it  is  not  strange  that  he  should  have  written 
feelingly  of  both  extremes.  Those  who  best  know 
Wanderlust  best  know^  Heimweh. 

It  was  likely  too,  on  his  journey  to  Bithynia,  that 
he  visited  the  tomb  of  his  brother  in  the  Troad, 
that  brother  so  deeply  loved  and  so  tenderly  mourn- 
ed in  many  of  his  verses  and  chiefly  in  the  Apos- 
trophe at  his  grave  (CI).  In  all  elegiac  literature 
is  there  nobler  affection  or  deeper  grief  told  so 
briefly  and  so  simply  as  in  these  lines? 

Perhaps  the  most  conspicuous  and  indubitable  fact 
of  the  life  of  this  poet  was  his  love  for  a  certain 


CATULLUS  21 

Roman  lady  whom  he  calls  Lesbia  and  who,  the 
critics  think,  was  Clodia,  the  wife  of  Q.  Metellus 
Celer  and  the  sister  ot  the  notorious  P.  Clodius  Pul- 
cher.  Whoever  the  lady  actually  was  is  of  rather 
little  moment  as  far  as  the  poetry  is  concerned. 
Sufficient  to  say  she  inspired  Catullus  with  an  over- 
mastering passion  which  fluctuated  between  heights 
of  bliss  and  depths  of  woe,  finally  culminating  in 
complete  despair  when  he  was  convinced  of  her 
faithlessness. 

It  is  not  because  Catullus  loved  Lesbia  that  we 
are  interested  in  her,  but  because  this  experience 
taught  him  to  write  love  lyrics  of  surpassing  beauty. 
And  here,  just  a  word  about  "internal  evidence," 
that  scholarly  temptation  to  unrighteousness.  It 
is  amazing  how  men  otherwise  honest  will  turn 
their  imaginations  loose  on  "internal  evidence"  and 
deduce  therefrom  the  most  egregious  lies  in  the 
shape  of  specific  facts.  Internal  evidence  should  be 
taken,  in  the  main,  for  evidence  internal;  i.  e.,  an 
evidence  of  the  internal  life  of  the  writer  and  not  as 
a  witness  of  his  outward  acts  and  relationships.  That 
a  poet  writes  one  or  more  love  lyrics  to  fifty  dif- 
ferent Lydias  and  Phyllises  does  not  prove  in  the 
least  that  he  has  as  many  mistresses,  nor  even  that 
all  or  any  of  such  lyrics  were  written  to  particular, 
women.  Nor  does  it  necessarily  imply  that  he  was 
fickle  or  constant.  All  that  it  actually  proves,  with- 


22  CATULLUS 

out  Indubitable  circumstantial  evidence,  is  that  he 
knew  much  of  love  in  man)^  phases,  its  joys,  its  jeal- 
ousies, its  pains,  its  pettinesses,  etc.  And  it  is  fair  to 
suppose  that  he  learned  it  from  more  or  less  actual 
experience.  However,  just  what  experiences,  or 
when,  or  where,  is  a  pretty  bold  assumption  without 
a  deal  of  corroborating  evidence.  A  particular  poem 
may  have  been  prompted  by  the  caprices  of  a  friend, 
by  a  passing  observation,  by  a  hint  from  a  book,  a 
play,  a  thousand  and  one  things  besides  a  specific 
experience  of  jealous  love  or  wounded  vanity.  And 
many  poems  have  no  doubt  been  inspired  by  the 
very  lack  of  the  passion  they  describe,  which,  denied, 
finds  solace  In  imagination.  The  satisfied  lover 
needs  no  poem  of  ecstacy;  his  beloved  Is  his  poem. 
The  despairing  lover  needs  no  verse  of  woe;  his 
broken  heart  Is  his  cry.  It  would  not  do  to  push 
this  theory  to  its  ultimate  logic,  but  there  is  some- 
thing In  it.  However,  we  merely  want  to  emphasize 
the  absurdity  of  attempting  to  fix  a  specific  ex- 
perience to  an  expressed  sentiment,  while  granting 
that  one  who  writes  profoundly  of  an  emotion  has 
known  it  from  experience,  which  is  exactly  what 
we  mean  by  "internal  evidence,"  But  that  a  par- 
ticular flesh-and-blood  Phyllis  jilted  the  poet  on  the 
particular  morning  in  May  on  which  he  sings  Is  fat 
fetched.  There  Is  a  deal  too  much  of  this  kind  of 
evidence  in  the  biographies  of  Catullus;  more  than 


CATULLUS  23 

the  facts  allow. 

About  a  hundred  and  twenty  lyrics  are  extant 
(many  of  them  very  short)  that,  with  good  au- 
thority, can  be  assigned  to  Catullus.  They  touch 
all  kinds  of  subjects,  whimsical,  delicate,  tender, 
passionate.  One  of  the  most  graceful,  for  example, 
is  written  on  the  death  of  his  sweetheart's  pet  bird ; 
another  to  a  friend  who  has  sent  him  a  book  of  bad 
verse.  There  is  a  tender  and  touching  lament  at 
the  tomb  of  his  dead  brother;  a  biting  lampoon  on 
the  bad  manners  of  a  social  parasite  who  stole  a  nap- 
kin at  a  dinner;  and  dozens  of  love  lyrics,  ecstactic, 
ardent,  brimming  with  joy,  weighted  with  grief,  or 
lightly  and  gracefully  whimsical.  These  lyrics  run 
the  whole  gamut  of  erotic  experience. 

It  is  this  range  of  feeling  that  gives  Catullus  im- 
mortality. He  is  not  great  in  the  sense  that  Virgil 
or  Horace  is.  He  lacks  the  lofty  idealism  of  the 
one,  the  broad  philosophy  of  the  other.  But  if  he  is 
not  humanly  great  he  is  greatly  human.  You  read 
Virgil  with  reverence  and  inspiration;  Horace,  with 
relish  and  delight;  Catullus  w^ith  joy  and  tears. 
Like  Burns,  he  touches  the  hearts  of  men,  and  the 
human  heart  does  not  change  very  much.  Two 
thousand  years  ago  this  young  Roman,  hot  blooded, 
tender  hearted,  sensitive  souled,  poured  out  his  life 
in  song.  Simple  they  were,  these  songs,  ingenuous 
and  sincere.     Today  we  read  them  with  emotion, 


24  CATULLUS 

for  we  understand  the  feeling,  though  we  cannot 
sing  the  songs.  There  is  a  felicity  in  song-making 
God-given.  Most  of  us  write  with  ink;  Catullus 
dipped  his  pen  in  fire  and  dew — and  sometimes 
venom.  Burns  knew  the  art,  and  so  did  Heine. 
There's  a  man  of  Catullus'  stripe — Heine.  Song- 
makers — those  three — and  they  sent  the  singing 
word  down  the  ages  to  set  men's  heart  strings  throb- 
bing in  accord. 

And  so  we  con  Catullus'  Latin  lyrics.  They  have 
something  for  us  still,  a  melody  and  a  theme  tran- 
scending language,  or  rather,  belonging  to  all  langu- 
age. That  is  why  we  try  to  translate  them,  to  trans- 
fer the  idea  and  the  tone  to  a  medium  that  will 
reach  the  modern  ear,  preserving  the  flavor  of  the 
original  as  far  as  possible,  changing  word,  phrase, 
and  figure  to  fit  today's  way  of  expressing  itself 
when  touched  by  the  same  world-old  passion.  This 
we  do  not  claim  to  have  succeeded  in  doing,  but 
it  is  what  we  have  tried  to  do.  It  may  be  thought 
over-bold  to  translate  ad  claras  Asiae  volemus 
urbes   (XLVI)    into: 

Dawn    flames    crimson,    luring   eastward, 

Asians  magic  blooms  unfold. 

Golden  cities  nod  and  beckon. 

Who  can  tell  what  joys  they  hold? 

However,  in  our  opinion,  this  is  just  what  trans- 


CATULLUS  25 

lation  requires.  For  while  the  original  has  no  such 
images,  it  has  a  tone,  flavor,  or  whatever  you  may 
call  it,  that  suggests  them,  and  the  translation  must 
meet  this  in  some  way. 

Translations  are  often  failures  because  they  sound 
like  translations.  To  translate  the  word  and  not 
the  thought  is  false;  to  catch  the  thought  and  miss 
the  spirit  is  no  less  false;  and  to  make  labored 
what  was  spontaneous  is  falsest  of  tM.  Therefore, 
the  translation  must  have  a  kind  of  spontaniety  of 
its  own,  an  English  originality,  as  it  were.  Thus 
we  have  used  rhyme  where  the  Latin  does  not  be- 
cause in  English  the  lyric  quality  of  verse  largely 
depends  on  rhyme.  And  in  this  faith  have  we  taken 
such  liberties  of  interpretation. 

Another  generation  will  no  doubt  essay  its  own 
translation.     We  have  written  as  we  have  read. 

The  University  of  Montana^ 
Missoula, 

January  J  IQ15 


SELECTIONS  FROM  CATULLUS 


CATULLUS 

I 

To  whom  shall  I  offer  this  book,  young  and  spright- 
ly, 

Neat,  polished,  wide-margined,  and  finished  po- 
litely? 

To  you,  my  Cornelius,  whose  learning  pedantic, 
Has  dared  to  set  forth  in  three  volumes  gigantic 
The  history  of  ages — ye  gods,  what  a  labor! — 
And  still  to  enjoy  the  small  wit  of  a  neighbor. 
A  man  who  can  be  light  and  learned  at  once,  sir, 
By  life's  subtle  logic  is  far  from  a  dunce,  sir. 
So  take  my  small  book — if  it  meet  with  your  favor. 
The  passing  of  years  cannot  dull  its  sweet  savor. 


29 


30  CATULLUS 

II 

Sweet  bird,  my  Lady's  dear  delight, 
Her  breast  thy  refuge  fair; 
Ah,  could'st  thou  know  thy  happiness 
To  be  so  sheltered  there! 

She  gives  her  dainty  finger  tip 
To  thy  sharp  little  bill 
In  sportive  play — a  ruse,  I  trow, 
Her  longing  love  to  still. 

Ah,  would  that  I,  like  her,  might  give 
Such  solace  to  my  grief. 
Might  cool  my  absent  heart's  fierce  fire 
In  such  a  sweet  relief. 


CATULLUS  31 

III 

Let  Venus  bow  her  head  in  grief, 
And  tears  drown  Cupid's  eyes  in  sorrow, 
And  men  of  feeling  everywhere 
Forget  to  smile— until  tomorrow. 

My  lady's  little  bird  lies  dead, 
The  bird  that  was  my  lady's  prize 
And  dearer  than  her  eyes — alas, 
Those  pretty,  tender,  tear-dimmed  eyes! 

It  knew  its  mistress  quite  as  well 
As  she  her  mother;  near  her  breast 
It  fluttered  ever,  chirping  soft 
And  in  her  bosom  found  its  rest. 

Now  does  it  seek  the  darksome  way, 
Whence  none  return  nor  message  bring — 
Accursed  be,  ye  deadly  shades, 
That  vanquish  every  lovely  thing! 

Ah,  cruel  deed!  poor  little  bird 
A-flutter  in  your  gloomy  skies! 
From  her  you've  snatched  her  pretty  pet; 
From  me,  the  brightness  of  her  eyes. 


32  ^  CATULLUS 

V 

Come,  let  us  live  and  love,  my  dear, 
A  fig  for  all  the  pratings  drear 
Of  sour  old  sages,  w^orldly  w^ise. 
Aye,  suns  may  set  again  to  rise; 
But  as  for  us,  when  once  our  sun 
His  little  course  of  light  has  run, 
An  endless  night  we'll  sleep  away. 
Then  kiss  me,  sweet,  while  kiss  we  may. 
A  thousand  kisses,  hundreds  then. 
And  straightway  we'll  begin  again — 
Another  thousand,   hundreds  more. 
And  still  a  thousand  as  before. 
Till  hundred  thousands  we  shall  kiss. 
And  lose  all  count  in  drunken  bliss, 
Lest  green-eyed  envy,  in  dull  spite, 
Should  steal  away  our  deep  delight. 


CATULLUS  33 

VII 

You  ask  me,  love,  how  many  kisses 
Shall  surfeit  me  with  burning  blisses. 
As  many  as  the  grains  of  sand 
That  burn  on  Airic's  spicy  strand 
Between  Jove's  shrine  of  mystic  gloom 
And  ancient  Battus'  sacred  tomb, 
Or  as  the  countless  stars  that  light 
Sweet  secret  loves  in  moonless  night. 
So  many  kisses,  not  one  less. 
Might  soothe  Catullus'  mad  distress. 
And  let  no  curious  gossip  cloy 
With  evil  tongue  our  perfect  joy. 


34  CATULLUS 

VIII 

Catullus,  cease  to  play  the  fool, 
Consider  what  is  past  as  past, 
Bright  days  have  shown  for  you,  'tis  true; 
Such  days,  you  know,  can  never  last. 

Bright  days  have  shown — ah,  that  was  when 
You  danced  attendance  to  the  maid, 
More  truly  loved  by  you,  of  course. 
Than  e're  was  loved  a  heartless  jade. 

And  then  how  many  happy  days 
Were  passed  in  loving  by  you  both ; 
You,  loyal,  eager,  ardent,  keen, 
The  maiden,  also,  nothing  loth. 

But  now  the  maid  no  longer  cares; 
Then,  what  do  you  care?     Never  sigh, 
Nor  follow  after  when  she  flees, 
Be  obdurate  and  say  goodby. 

But  as  for  you,  reluctant  girl. 
Alone  j^ou'll  sit  and  grieve  all  day ; 
For  who  will  love  you,  call  you  fair. 
When  your  Catullus  stays  away? 


CATULLUS  35 

IX 

Veranus,  best  of  all  my  friends, 

Had  I  ten  thousand  others, 

You're  coming  home,  to  your  own  hearth. 

Your  mother  and  dear  brother?. 

You're  coming  home — oh,  happy  thought! 

I'll  see  you  safe  and  hear  you 

Tell  happy  tales  of  far-off  lands, 

The  while  we're  gathered  near  you. 

Your  arms  about  my  neck,  I'll  press 

On  lips  and  eyes  fond  kisses — 

Oh,  happy  men  o'er  all  the  earth; 

Who  knows  such  joy  as  this  is? 


36  CATULLUS 

XIII 

Come  dine  with  me,  Fabullus,  do. 

You  shall  dine  well,  I  promise  you. 

If  Fates  are  kind,  and  if  you  bring 

Along  with  you  the  needful  thing — 

A  dinner  bountiful  and  fine, 

A  pretty  girl,  new  salt,  old  wine, 

And  topping  all  a  hearty  laugh, 

Mirth,  jest,  and  wit  and  friendly  chaff — 

If  these  you   bring,   old   friend,   I   swear. 

That  you  shall  dine  on  royal  fare. 

Catullus'    purse    is    full — but   hold! 

Of  musty  cobwebs — now  don't  scold; 

For  in  his  turn,  he'll  offer  you 

A  pure  delight  both  rare  and  new. 

An  unguent,  perfume — what  you  will — 

No  name  its  qualities  can  fill. 

More  fragrant,  elegant,  more  sweet, 

Than  ever  you  have  chanced  to  meet. 

A  balm  in  which  the  gods  might  lave, 

Which  Venus  to  my  mistress  gave. 

You'll  say,  when  once  you've  smelled  the  stuff, 

I  haven't  praised  it  half  enough. 

And  pray  the  gods,  without  repose. 

To  make  you  nothing  else  hut  nose. 

Note. — Unguents  and  perfumes,  together  with  gar- 
lands, were  valued  by  the  ancient  Romans  at  their  feasts 
quite  as  highly  as  the  viands. 


CATULLUS  37 

XIV 

Did  I  not  love  you  more  than  my  own  eyes, 
Sweet  Calvus,  for  this  gift  I'd  hate  you  quite, 
With  all  of  old  Vatinius'  spleen  and  spite. 
What  have  I  done  or  said,  in  any  wise. 
That  you  should  kill  me  off  with  this  vile  verse  ? 
And  may  misfortune  hit  the  miscreant  hard 
Who  sent  to  you  the  book  of  such  a  bard ; 
Unless,  as  I  suspect,  'twas  Sulla's  curse — 
A  pedant,  he,  and  critic  who  might  send 
A  book  like  this  and  call  it  witty  stuf¥. 
Then  I  don't  care,  it  can't  be  bad  enough; 
It  serves  you  right  for  having  such  a  friend. 
Great  gods!  the  wretched  and  accursed  smutch! 
And  you  must  send  the  thing  to  me  straightway, 
That  I  be  bored  to  death  the  live  long  day. 
On  Saturnalia  too — this  is  too  much! 
Don't  think,  my  witty  friend,  I'm  done  with  you; 
At  dawn  straight  to  the  book  stalls  shall  I  fly. 
And  gather  all  the  vile  stuflE  I  can  buy, 
Suffenus,  Caecii,  the  whole  rank  crew, 
And  pay  you  back  in  kind,  with  interest  too. 
Meanwhile,  farewell — ye  would-be  bards  depart 
To  that  dark  place  from  which  ye  drew  your  art, 
And  take  your  darling  books  along  with  you ! 


3S  CATULLUS 

XXVI 

Due  on  my  fair  estate  there  falls 
Not  north  wind,  south  wind,  east  nor  west; 
But  there  falls  due  ten  thousand  pounds,-— 
All  winds  at  once — oh  shrivelling  pest! 


CATULLUS  39 

XXVII 

Come  boy,  and  pour  for  me  a  cup 

Of  old  Falernian.     Fill  it  up 

With  wine,  strong,  sparkling,  bright,  and  clear; 

Our  host  decrees  no  water  here. 

Let  dullards  drink  the  Nymph's  pale  brew, 

The  sluggish  thin  their  blood  with  dew. 

For  such  pale  stuff  we  have  no  use; 

For  us  the  purple  grape's  rich  juice. 

Begone,  ye  chilling  water  sprite; 

Here  burning  Bacchus  rules  tonight! 


40  CATULLUS 

XXX 

Art  thou,  Alfenus,  false,  forgetful,  too. 
To  friend   and  comrade  faithless,   insincere? 
Can  hearts  grow  cold  to  what  was  once  held  dear. 
And  memory  fail,  that  once  was  kind  and  true? 

To  bind  me  to  thy  soul,  with  promise  sweet. 
And  then  betray  me  when  by  ills  beset — 
And   dost   thou   dare,   false-hearted,   to   forget 
The  very  gods  are  wroth  at  such  deceit? 

Thou,  thou,  in  my  deep  need,  couldst  yet  deceive. 
Thou  who  didst  bid  me  trust  thee  to  the  end. 
Didst  pledge  thy  faith  to  be  my  constant  friend! 
Alas,  whom  shall  men  trust,  in  whom  believe? 

By  soft  persuasion  didst  thou  win  my  love, 
And  pledge  by  every  vow  that  men  can  swear, 
Then  tossed  thy  words  into  the  empty  air, 
A  sport  for  wanton  winds  and  clouds  above. 

Hast  thou  forgotten  faith  and  loyalty 
And  friendship  that  doth  love  and  mourn  thee  yet? 
The  gods  are  mindful  most  when  men  forget — 
Take  heed  lest  they,  at  last,  remember  diee. 


CATULLUS  41 

XXXI 

Fair  Sirmio,  thou  art  the  very  eye 

Of  all  the  verdant  isles  that  blooming  lie 

'Neath  Neptune's  sway,  in  limpid  lake  asleep, 

Or  raise  rough  crags  against  the  surging  deep. 

How  gladly  do  I  visit  thee  again, 

And  leave  behind  the  drear  Bithynian  plain 

And    Thynia,    where    I've    toiled    the    long    year 

through, 
Far  from  the  fairest  spot  'neath  heaven's  blue. 
Oh,  what  is  sweeter  than,  when  toil  is  past. 
To  come  back  home,  the  mind  care-free  at  last, 
The  foreign  labors  done,  the  rest  well-earned, 
To  seek  the  welcome  couch  for  which  we've  yearned  ? 
This,  this,  alone  rewards  us  for  dull  toil. 
Hail,  lovely  Sirmio !  dear  native  soil. 
Rejoice;  thy  lord's  returned — Ye  Lydian  lake 
Give  answer,  bid  your  rippling  waves  awake 
To  laughter;  ye  light  winds  waft  joy  along, 
And  let  the  whole  house  ring  with  mirth  and  song! 


42  CATULLUS 

XXXIV 

Goddess  of  the  crescent  moon, 
Guardian  of  youth's  radiant  noon, 
Hail  to  thee,  Diana! 
Maidens  pure  as  lilies  white. 
Youths  as  spotless  as  the  light. 
Let  us  sing  Diana! 

Daughter   of   Latona's   love, 
Whiter  than  fair  Venus'  dove, 
Better  loved  by  mortals ; 
Chaste  child  of  Satumian  Jove, 
Cradled  in  an  Olive  grove 
Near  the  Delian  portals. 

Born  to  be  untouched  and  free, 
Mistress  of  the  wild-wood  tree. 
Goddess  of  the  mountains, 
Spirit,  too,  of  light  and  shade, 
Sunny  slope  and  dusky  glade, 
Sprite  of  laughing  fountains. 

Tenderer  tasks  are  also  thine, 
Groddess  of  the  hill  and  pine, 
Sweeter  than  all  others: 
Thou,  with  gentle  look  and  mild, 
Smilest  on  the  new-bom  child, 
Patron  of  young  mothers. 


CATULLUS  43 

By  thy  shining  lunar  light, 
Thou  dost  mark  the  season's  flight 
For  the  farmer's  pleasure; 
Sendest,  too,  the  quickening  rain, 
Fruitful  vine,  and  golden  grain. 
Bountiful  in  measure. 

Goddess  of  all  kindliness, 

By  whatever  name  addressed, 

Hail  to  thee,   Diana! 

Guard  and  save  our  ancient  race. 

By  the  favor  of  thy  grace, 

While  v^^e  sing  Diana. 


44  CATULLUS 

XXXV 

Fly  little  note,  without  delay, 
Find  out  Caecilius  and  say 
To  this  sweet  poet,  blithe  and  gay, 
Catullus  asks  that  he,  straightway, 
His  swift  course  to  Verona  take. 
Though  he  must  leave  fair  Como's  lake 
And,  too,   (a  task,  perchance,  more  hard 
To  ask  of  this  erotic  bard) 
A  maiden  fairer  than  the  skies 
Beneath  whose  smiles  Lake  Como  lies, 
A  maiden  whose  white  arms  will  press 
About  his  neck  with  soft  caress, 
And  seek  to  hold  him  when  he  tries 
To  go — who'll  plead  with  lips  and  eyes. 
And  this  I  greatly  fear,  in  sooth. 
If  rumor  hath  told  me  the  truth. 
They  say  her  love  for  him  hath  sprung 
From  hearing  his  sweet  verses  sung; 
That  since  Caecilius  first  came, 
With  his  sweet  songs  and  set  aflame 
Her  tender  heart,  her  soul  hath  known 
No  thought  but  him  and  him  alone. 
Methinks,  my  friend,  a  maid  so  rare 
Must  needs  thy  tender  heart  ensnare. 
A  girl  whose  taste  can  so  esteem 
Thy  masterpiece  hath  caught,  I  ween. 


CATULLUS  45 

A  bit  of  Sappho's  grace  and  fire 
And  nobly  kindled  thy  desire. 
Nor  should  I  wonder,  rather  blame, 
If  thou  wert  cold  to  such  a  flame. 
Yet,  if  a  poet  can  be  wise, 
Caecilius,   flee  those  pleading  eyes, 
And  hither  come,  post  haste,  to  me. 
For  I've  a  new  philosophy. 
Compact  of  wisdom,  wit,  and  sense, 
'Gainst  every  ill  a  sure  defense. 
A  mutual  friend  hath  thought  it  out 
And  brought  it  here  to  talk  about. 
We  wait  thy  coming  eagerly, 
To  share  this  gift  divine  with  thee. 
'Twill  charm  thy  mind  with  surer  art 
Than  yonder  maiden  charmed  thy  heart. 
And  should'st  thou  fail  us — wo?  betide! 
But  hold!  why  should  Catullus  chide? 
I'd  pardon  much  to  such  a  maid. 
And  much  to  thee  by  her  delayed. 


46  CATULLUS 

XXXVIII 

I'm  sick  in  body,  mind,  and  heart, 
More  wretched  hourly  do  I  grow; 
And  not  a  line  from  you,  my  friend, 
A  bit  of  sympathy  to  show. 

Not  one  poor,  flimsy,  little  line — 

A  simple,  easy  thing  to  do — 

A  little  line  to  say  you  care, 

What  wonder  if  I'm  grieved  with  you? 

And  thus  my  love  is  slighted?    Ah, 
When  such  a  little  thing  would  please — 
One  little,  kindly  line  of  love, 
Though  sadder  than  Simonides. 

Note. — Simonides   was   an   elegiac  poet  of  Ceos,   a 
master  of  pathos. 


CATULLUS  47 

XLIII 

Pshaw,  little  girl,  you're  much  too  small, 
YouVe  scarcely  any  nose  at  all. 
Your  feet  are  shapeless,  fingers,  too, 
Your  eyes  a  dull  and  faded  blue. 
With  lips  as  parched  as  last  year's  peas. 
And  silly  tongue,  untaught  to  please. 
They  say  that  Formian  calls  you  fair. 
And  that  they  praise  you  everywhere. 
A  dull  and  senseless  age — ah  me. 
If  they  could  Lesbia's  beauty  see! 


4l  CATULLUS 

XLVI 

Spring  again  is  in  the  breezes! 
Soft  and  warm  and  sweet  they  blow; 
Hushed  the  equinoctial  fury, 
Lulled  by  Zephyr  singing  low. 

And  she  calls  to  you,  Catullus, 
Hasten,  bid  your  comrades  rise, 
Phrygian  fields  can  charm  no  longer, 
Nicaea  wearies  heart  and  eyes. 

Dawn  flames  crimson,  luring  Eastward, 
Asia's  magic  blooms  unfold, 
Golden  cities  nod  and  beckon, 
Who  can  tell  what  joys  they  hold? 

Wealth  and  life  and  love — and  something 
Still  unknown  and  far  more  sweet; 
Dreams  outstrip  the  feet  in  spring  time, 
Youth  gives  wings  to  eager  feet. 

Say  farewell  to  all  your  comrades. 
Each  must  wander  as  he  may. 
Spring  is  here,  and  youth  must  follow 
Life  and  love  its  own  sweet  way. 


CATULLUS  49 

XLVIII 

Sweet  Lesbia,  let  my  kisses  fall 
On  thy  sweet  tyes,  nor  say  me  nay, 
Not  though  I  kiss  ten  thousand  times, 
No  niggard   favor  do  I  pray. 

Ten  thousand  times  ten  thousand  times 
Were  all  too  few — ah,  love,  be  kind! 
Let  kisses  fall  with  lavish  waste, 
Like  blood  red  leaves  in  autumn  wind. 


50  CATULLUS 

L 

'Twas  yesterday,  Licinius  mine, 
While  idling  at  our  nuts  and  wine, 
As  gay  young  bloods  think  proper, 
In  sportive  vein  we  teased  the  Muse 
To  scribble  verses  so  profuse. 
My  faith,  we  scarce  could  stop  her. 

And  when  at  last  I  left  the  place, 
So  fired  with  your  rare  wit  and  grace — 
Or  wine,  you  say — ^you  dare  it? — 
I   tossed  upon  my  bed  all  night, 
Impatient  for  the  morning  light 
And  you — by  Jove,  I  swear  it. 

'Twas  you  I  longed  again  to  see, 

To  hear  the  clever  repartee, 

The  thrust  and  answer  ready. 

I  rose,  my  brain  half  dead  for  rest. 

And  scrawled  these  rhymes  that  might  attest 

My  hand,  at  least,  was  steady. 

Then  speed  the  hour,  sweet  friend  of  mine, 
When  we  shall  meet  at  nuts  and  wine, 
With  wit  and  jest  distracting. 
And  if  you  scorn  a  love  like  this.. 
Then,  oh,  beware  of  Nemesis, 
A  lady  most  exacting. 


CATULLUS  51 

LI 

Then  like  a  god  he  seems  to  me, 
Aye,  greater  than  the  gods  is  he 
Whom  they  permit  to  sit  near  thee, 

With  senses  clear, 
To  hear  thy  rippling  laugh  and  note 
Thy  sparkling  eyes  and  shining  throat, 
Thy   throbbing  breast — ah,  joys   remote 

And  all  too  dear! 

When  I  behold  thee,  Lesbia  dear, 
My  voice  grows  dumb,  a  chilling  fear 
Benumbs  my  tongue;    I  cannot  hear, 

So  sad  my  plight. 
My  failing  limbs  soft  fires  suffuse 
And  through  my  flesh  so  subtly  ooze, 
My  very  eyes  their  vision  lose 

In   sudden   night. 

An  icy  sweat  o'erspreads  my  frame. 
Fierce  trembling  seizes  me  like  flame, 
Ah,  cruel  Venus,  thine  the  blame! 

In  vain  I  cry 
That  thou  avert  my  certain  doom. 
Breath  fails ;  the  light  is  lost  in  gloom. 
Like  grass  that  torrid  winds  consume, 

I  droop  and  die. 


52  CATULLUS 

Note. — The  last  stanza  usually  appended  to  this  poem 
is  so  obviously  a  misfit  that  it  has  been  omitted  in  the 
translation.  It  is  incredible  that  so  finished  and  fault- 
less a  writer  as  Catullus  shows  himself  in  other  poems, 
should  have  so  stupidly  blundered  in  this.  It  is  doubly 
incredible  if  we  accept  this  as  a  translation  of  the  well 
known  Sapphic  ode  in  the  same  strain.  The  first  three 
stanzas  of  the  two  poems  are  almost  identical.  It  is 
hardly  probable,  then,  that  Catullus  would  so  flagrantly 
have  departed  from  the  original  in  the  fourth.  There- 
fore, we  have  taken  the  liberty  to  adapt  for  the  last 
stanza  the  general  sense  of  Sappho's  verses.  It  is  far 
more  probable  that  the  original  fourth  stanza  of  Catullus 
was  lost  than  that  he  made  such  a  blunder  in  taste 
and  feeling. 


CATULLUS  53 

LII 

Why  wait  for  death,   Catullus,  why  not  be  done 

with  life? 
Corruption  in  the  Curule  chair,  and  in  the  Senate 

strife. 
Venality  is  honored,  and  bribery  is  rife, 
Why  wait  for  death   Catullus,  why   not  be  done 

with  life? 


54  CATULLUS 

LXV 

Worn  out  with  sorrow  that  finds  no  relief, 
And  crushed  beneath  a  load  of  endless  care, 
Hortalus,  friend,  I  ask  thee  to  forbear; 
I  cannot  woo  the  Muses  in  my  grief. 

And  fain  Fd  send  thee  joyous  songs  and  bright, 
And  fain  remember  happy  things  once  more; 
Thou  knowest,  how  late,  a  flood  from  Lethe's  shore 
O'erwhelmed  my  brother  in  its  chilling  night. 

My  brother,  best  beloved,  than  life  more  dear, 
Tom   from  my  sight,   entombed   in   foreign   land. 
Oh  shall  I  never  see  thee,  touch  thy  hand, 
And  never  hear  thee  speak,  nor  feel  thee  near? 

Yet  always  shall  I  love  thee,  always  sing 
Songs  saddened  by  thy  death,  of  minor  note, 
Such  songs  as  Philomel  pours  from  her  throat, 
Bewailing  Itys  dead  by  Daulian  spring. 

And  so,  Hortalus,  unto  thee  I  send 
These  sweeter  strains  by  sweeter  singer  wrought. 
Lest  thou  shouldst  think  Catullus  loved  thee  not, 
And  with  a  brother  I  should  lose  a  friend. 

Note. — Unable,  because  of  the  grief  caused  by  his 
brother's  death,  to  send  some  promised  verses  to  his 
friend  Hortensius  Ortalus,  Catullus  sends  this  epistle 
accompanied  by  some  translations  from  Callimadius. 


CATULLUS  55 

LXVIII  A 

O'erwhelmed  by  cruel  misfortune, 
Oppressed   by  chilling  fears, 
From  out  the  depths,  thou  sendest  mc 
This  letter  writ  in   tears. 

The  dark  night  brings  no  respite, 
Since  thou  art  left  forlorn 
To  toss  upon  thy  lonely  couch 
Until   the   darker  morn. 

The  old  familiar  poets, 
That  once  brought  thee  delight. 
No  longer  soothe  thy  weary  mind. 
That  watches  out  the  night. 

And  thou  dost  ask  of  friendship 
What  love  nor  verse  can  give — 
Hope  in  thy  bitter  loneliness, 
The  why  and  how  to  live. 

Dear  friend,  how  fain  I'd  aid  thee, 
And  send  thee  sweet  relief; 
Yet  thou  must  know  that  I,  as  thou, 
Am  plunged  in  blackest  grief. 

Could  one  bright  ray  still  reach  me, 
'Twould  be  that  thou  didst  send, 
In  thy  dark  hour,  this  tender  plea 
To  me,  thy  heart's  best  friend. 


56  CATULLUS 

Oh,  seek  not  with  the  hopeless 
To  find  sweet  hope,  nor  ask 
That  joy  shall  spring  from  misery — 
That  were  too  grim  a  task. 

Time  was  when  youth's  glad  spring  time 
Led  me  with  flowery  feet 
To  drink  where  Song's  clear  fountains  spring, 
And   taste   Love's   bitter-sweet. 

Now  all  delight  has  perished, 
Lost  in  the  awful  night 
That  rose  from  Orcus'  gloom  and  tore 
My  brother  from  my  sight. 

Oh,   brother  so   beloved. 
All  joy  with  thee  has  fled, 
And  all  our  house,  its  very  heart 
And  soul,  with  thee  lie  dead. 

All  things  thy  fond  love  fostered 
When  we  walked  side  by  side — 
The  verse  I  loved,  the  joys  I  sought — 
With  thee,  dear  one,  have  died. 

Dear  friend,  the  joy  thou  cravest, 
I  cannot  ofFer  thee; 
Thou  wilt  forgive — how  can   I  send 
What  grief  has  reft  of  me? 


CATULLUS  57 


And  say  not,  at  Verona, 
I   languish  dull  and  cold, 
What  solace  for  my  weary  heart 
Could  all  the  city  hold? 

My  books  and  all  my  treasures, 
At  Rome  are  left  behind ; 
That  neither  joy  nor  book  I  send, 
Pray  think  me  not  unkind. 

A  book  of  verse  I'd  send  thee 
To  speed  one  leaden  hour, 
As  all  thy  bitter  pain  I'd  cure, 
If  it  were  in  my  power. 

Dost  think,  friend,  I  had  waited 
Until  thy  plea  was  read? 
Sooth,  long  ago,  to  ease  thy  grief. 
My  love  unasked  had  sped. 


Note. — According  to  the  most  reasonable  evidence 
this  letter  was  written  to  Manlius,  who  was  staying  at 
or  near  Verona,  Catullus'  paternal  home,  whither  the 
young  poet  himself  had  retired  in  grief  at  the  death  of 
his   brother. 

Manlius  has  written  to  Catullus  in  deep  distress,  the 
cause  of  which  is  not  known,  but  conjectured  to  be 
grief  at  the  death  of  his  young  wife.  He  has  asked 
that  Catullus  send  him  books  or  poems  of  his  own 
making  to  beguile  his  grief. 


58  CATULLUS 

LXX 

My  mistress  says  she'd  wed  with  me 
If  Jove  himself  had  sought  her; 
She  says — but  write  what  woman  says 
In  winds  and  running  water. 


CATULLUS  59 

LXXII 

Ah,  Lesbfa,  thou  wert  wont  to  say 
Catullus'  love  alone  held  thee, 
And  should  Jove's  self  thy  beauty  lure, 
Before  his  favor  mine  should  be. 

I  loved  thee  then  beyond  the  love 
Of  man  for  maid ;  I  held  thee  fair 
Not  only  with  a  lover's  hope, 
But  with  a  father's  tender  care. 

But  now  I  know  thee  as  thou  art; 
And  though  thy  loveliness  still  charms. 
Thy  faithlessness  makes  thee  despised, 
And  keeps  thee  from  these  longing  arms. 

And  dost  thou  ask  how  this  can  be? 
Such  wrongs  beget  such  deep  distress, 
That  though  compelled  to  love  thee  more, 
I'm  also  forced  to  like  thee  less. 


6o  CATULLUS 

LXXIII 

Then  cease  to  strive  to  win  esteem, 

Or  think  another  fair; 

The  whole  world's  thankless,  selfish,  mean. 

There's  none  who  truly  care. 

Good  deeds  but  weary,  nay,  far  more, 

They  even  oft  offend ; 

No  enemy  so  bitter  quite, 

As  he  who  was  a  friend. 


CATULLUS  6i 

LXXVI 

If  man  finds  solace  to  his  woe, 

When  fell  misfortune  strikes  him  low, 

In  consciousness  of  rectitude 

And  loyal,  honest  attitude 

Toward  god  and  man,  Catullus,  thou 

Might  ease  thy  anguished  heart-ache  now, 

Might  hope  some  joys  for  thee  remain, 

Dispite  thy  baffled  love's  cruel  pain. 

In  kindness  wast  thou  ever  slow. 

Or  didst  thou  ever  fail  to  show 

Devotion  to  her  least  caprice? 

Thy  love  didst  mightily  increase, 

Till  every  thought  that  thou  didst  own 

Was  lost  in  her  and  her  alone. 

What  was  it  thou  didst  do  or  say 

That  caused  her  love  to  turn  away? 

Ah,  surely,  all  that  man  could  do 

Thou  didst — ^Ah  well,  if  this  be  true, 

Why  suffer  more  this  sharp  regret, 

The  gods  have  willed  it  so — and  yet, 

Ah,  love,  I  cannot  let  thee  go! 

Thou  knowest  I  have  loved  thee  so, 

And  thou  art  all  my  life  to  me, 

I  know  no  life  apart  from  thee. 

Jove*s  self  could  not  forget  to  sigh 

If  he  had  ever  loved  as  I. 


62  CATULLUS 

What  can't  be  done,  I  still  must  do — 

Forget,  if  I  would  live  life  through. 

Then,  if  there  be  a  god  above 

Who  pities  unrequited  love, 

Thou  god,  if  thou  canst  feel  or  care 

For  mortal  anguish — hear  my  prayer! 

If  ever  I  have  done  a  deed 

That  ministered  to  mortal  need, 

Behold  my  utter  w^retchedness, 

And  lift  from  me  this  black  distress. 

This  cursed  love  creeps  through  my  frame, 

Consuming  with  its  deadly  flame 

My  heart's  last  joy;  my  soul  lies  dead, 

And  I,  a  shade,  move  in  its  stead. 

No  more  I  ask  what  once  I  yearned — 

That  my  love  love  me  in  return. 

Nor  yet  a  thing  that  could  not  be — 

That  she  be  worthy  now  of  me. 

I  only  ask,  great  gods  above, 

Ye  free  me  from  this  deadly  love! 


CATULLUS  63 

LXXXVII  AND  LXXV 

No  woman,  Lesbia,  can  say  she's  been  so  loved  as 

thou, 
Nor  can  she  claim  so  true  a  heart  as  mine  has  been, 

I  vow. 

Yet,  by  thy  perfidy,  my  love,  my  mind  is  brought  so 

low 
My  heart  so  in  devor'on  lost,  alas,  I  only  know 

I  could  not  like  thee  once  again  should'st  thou  full 

spotless  be; 
Yet,  dear,  do  what  thou  wilt,  and  I  must  still  keep 

loving  thee. 

Note. — These  verses  are  usually  edited  as  two  frag- 
ments. However,  some  commentators  put  them  togeth- 
er and  they  read  much  better  so. 


64  CATULLUS 

LXXXVI 

Now,  Quintia  is  handsome  to  many  a  vulgar  eye, 
Tall,    straight,    she   is,    and    fair   and    round — but 

handsome  J  I'll  deny. 
No  charm  has  she,  nor  piquancy,  and  not  a  grain 

of  grace, 
In  all  her  large  and  buxom  frame,  nor  in  her  stolid 

face. 
Let  men  of  taste  behold  my  love,  my  Lesbia,  and  see 
What  beauty  is  in  form  and  face  in  dame  of  high 

degree. 
What  grace  of  motion,  poise  of  head,  what  glances, 

piercing  sweet; 
From  shining  hair,  she's  perfect  all,  to  shapely  little 

feet. 
It   puzzles   me,   I   must  confess,   how   others   dare 

appear. 
Whatever  beauty  they  may  boast,  when  Lesbia  is 

near. 
For  such  her  perfect  loveliness,  e'en  Venus  must 

admit 
The  sex  can  claim  no  single  charm  but  she  has  stolen 

it. 


CATULLUS 

XCII 

Fair  Lesbi'a,  when  I  am  not  by, 
Abuses  me  most  sadly; 
Whereat  I  smile,  by  this  I  know 
The  lady  loves  me  madly. 

How  do  I  know?  Ah  well,  perchance. 
It's  lover's  intuition — 
Don't  I  berate  her  just  as  hard, 
Yet  love  her  to  perdition? 


66  CATULLUS 

XCVI 

If  into  the  silent  torab  can  steal 
Some  tenderness,  some  thought  devine, 
If  aught  from  this  life  the  dead  can  feel, 
Then,  Calvus,  be  this  solace  thine. 

When  we  mourn  old  friends  with  longing  heart; 
For  dear  dead  loves  in  anguish  cry, 
Oh,  there,  do  they  feel  the  hot  tears  start, 
Touched  by  a  love  that  cannot  die? 

If  this  be,  Calvus,  thy  sweet  girl  wife. 
There  in  the  tomb  shall  less  grief  know 
For  her  spring  time  lost,  her  broken  life, 
Than  joy  in  thy  love  that  loved  her  so. 


Note. — Licinius  Calvus,  a  poet,  was  one  of  Catullus' 
closest  friends  and  one  in  whom  he  found  the  happiest 
companionship.  They  often  wrote  verses  together  in 
friendly  rivalry.  The  sprightly  little  satire,  XIV,  was 
addressed  to  this  same  Calvus  in  return  for  his  present 
of  a  badly  written  book  that  had  fallen  into  his  hands. 
The  tender  verses  above  were  written  by  Catullus  m 
sympathy  and  consolation  for  the  untimely  death  of 
Calvus'  young  wife,  Quintilia. 


CATULLUS  67 

XCIX 

Once  while  you  played,  my  pretty  miss, 
I  snatched  from  you  a  honeyed  kiss — 
Oh,  nectar  is  not  sweeter! 
Yet  short  my  bliss,  and  swift  1  paid; 
The  haughty,  saucy  little  maid 
Was  wroth  I  so  should  treat  her. 

An  hour  or  more  on  bended  knee, 

I   prayed   that  she  would  pardon  me — 

For  how  could  one  resist  her.^ 

With  angry  little  finger  tips 

She  rubbed  and  scoured  her  coral  lips, 

Lamenting  that  I'd  kissed  her. 

The  while  she  tortured  my  desire 
With  blood  red  mouth  and  eyes  afire — 
What  though  the  minx  seemed  artless? 
She  knew  she  had  me  on  the  rack. 
What  could  I  do? — Alas,  alack, 
That  girls  should  be  so  hearties?! 

If  stolen  kisses,  nectar  sweet. 

Be  turned  to  gall,  in  sure  defeat, 

By  torture  such  as  this  is; 

Such  brief  bliss  I  would  fain  forego, 

And  swear  by  all  the  gods  I  know 

To  never  more  steal  kisses. 


68  CATULLUS 

CI 

Across  wide  lands,  across  a  wider  sea, 
To  this  sad  service.  Brother,  am  I  bourn 
To  pay  thee  death's  last  tribute  and  to  mourn 
By  thy  dead  dust  that  cannot  answer  me. 
This,  this  alone  is  left — ah,  can  it  be 
Thy  living  self  blind  chance  from  me  has  torn. 
That  cruel  death  has  left  me  thus  forlorn. 
And  thou  so  loved,  dear  Brother,  lost  to  me? 
Still,  must  I  bring,  as  men  have  done  for  years, 
These  last  despairing  rites,   this  solemn  vow. 
Here  offered  with  a  love  too  deep  to  tell, 
And  consecrated  with  a  brother's  tears. 
Accept  them,  Brother  all  is  done — and  now 
Forever  hail,  forever  fare  thee  well. 


CATULLUS  69 

CII 

If  ever  friend  has  trusted  friend 
Whose  faith  is  tried  and  true, 
Discretion  proved,  allegiance  firm, 
Cornelius,  it  is  you. 

My  tongue  is  bound,  as  by  an  oath, 
A  secret  to  defend; 
The  very  god  of  Silence  I, 
When  once  I've  pledged  a  friend. 


70  CATULLUS 

CVII 

If  ever  answer  came  to  ceaseless  prayer, 
When  hope  was  dead  and  longing  well-nigh  spent, 
Oh,  doubly  dear  the  gifts  the  gods  then  lent 
To  heal  the  heart  consumed  with  anxious  care. 

So  Lesbia  have  you  been  restored  to  me, 
Who  longed,  yet  dared  not  hope  such  grace  as  this. 
You  came,  at  your  sweet  will — oh  wonderous  bliss! 
You  came,  my  golden  love,  wide-armed  and  free. 

Ah,  fair  white  day  with  happiness  leplete. 
Bright  day  that  brought  my  dear  love  back  again, 
What  greater  joy  can  come  to  mortal  men, 
What  gift  life  hold  that  could  be  half  so  sweet? 


CATULLUS  71 

CIX 

Oh  Lesbia,  my  life,  vou  promised  me, 
This  love  of  ours  should  be  forever  true, 
Forever  true  and  happy — can  there  be 
Such  perfect  joy  bestowed  on  mortal  two? 

Vet  grant,  great  gods,  she  promised  from  her  soul, 
And  spoke  w^ith  all  the  ardor  of  her  heart. 
That  I  may  keep  her  mine  while  season's  roll. 
And  all  life  perish,  e'er  we  two  should  part! 


LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 

Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


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